The Last Thread
by Foul Ole Ron
Summary: Draco Malfoy has the feeling he is about to lose his last threads of self respect. His suspicions are confirmed when he is greeted less than cordially on the front steps of No. 12 Grimmauld Place by Hermione Granger...
1. Filthy Turncoat

Disclaimer: The characters and plot from JK Rowling's Harry Potter series are not owned by Fowl Ole Ron

**_THE LAST THREAD_**

_By Foul Ole Ron_

**Chapter One**

**Filthy Turncoat**

The air is thick with noise and drunken euphoria. Someone has poured their ale into the fire and it has sprung up like a great red beast. Draco Malfoy imagines he can see black slits of eyes and a gaping mouth as he watches it crackle and spit. Hazy figures around him chortle to themselves as one man gets up onto the bar and begins to dance. The owner of the pub gives him a wary look and stands braced, ready to push him toward the drinkers rather than his precious alcohol, should he fall. The dancer's face is red with exertion, and he is singing an unintelligible drinking song while he flings up his legs with surprising agility. Malfoy blinks, and suddenly there is a girl up there with him, crowing with glee as he spins her around, causing her pointed shoe to narrowly miss several people's heads. The girl, despite having an ugly face, has a wealth of smooth golden hair. Malfoy watches transfixed as the hellish light of the fire plays across her twirling locks. Raising his fire whisky to his lips, Malfoy smiles coldly to himself and wonders how long it will be until he is properly drunk this evening. Not that he is the type of drunk who would be dancing on tables. No. He would probably take more comfort in being relieved of his cash by some prostitute, and then awakening alone in the street with a few clear memories.

1111

Several miles away, Hermione Granger sits in her dusty room at number 12 Grimmauld Place and carefully files reports, sorts through relevant information and meticulously records it. Being a witch, she reads by candle light, writes with a quill, and wonders why the wizarding world must distance themselves so dramatically from ordinary muggles. What she wouldn't do for a little of the central heating or electric lighting that is commonplace in her parent's house. As Hermione scratches away, a clock somewhere in the house chimes midnight. Rubbing her eyes tiredly, she contemplates going to bed. After she has stared at the same sentence (written in Harry Potter's uneven scrawl) for at least five minutes, she realizes that she can no longer think straight and is unsure as to weather the last fourteen reports have been filed correctly. She glares at them accusingly for some time, until she blows out her candle huffily and stalks out of the room, across the landing and into the bathroom. Turning on the shower full blast, she half-hopes that several people who always seem to get a proper night's sleep are woken up and stricken with terrible insomnia.

1111

Draco Malfoy stumbles out onto the street. He has achieved his goal. He is completely smashed. The road is icy and a muggle car skids to a halt mere inches from where he stands. He gazes almost lovingly at the headlights. They are so bright, and so beautiful. An irate, balding man in a heavy overcoat steps angrily out of the car and bangs his door shut, ruining Malfoy's blissful moment.

"What the hell are you doing, mate?" shouts the man, "You could've been killed!" Malfoy tries to gather his thoughts. He squints and opens his mouth, but can't form the words,

"Drunk as a skunk!" the man cries, stepping closer to him and peering into his face. The muggle is a good deal taller and broader than Malfoy, and deep within his drink dazed brain, Malfoy feels a little threatened. Finally able to speak, he leans on the bonnet of the car and laughs,

"I am not!" he says thickly, "I am not drunk as a skunk. I'm as sober as Rover!" he laughs again. The muggle gives him a disgusted look. In the darkened street, the sound of reveling from the pub can be heard, and a trickle of light splash's the muggle's face. Malfoy sees a trace of concern in his disapproving eyes, and immediately stops laughing.

"Why don't you fucking well mind your own business!" he says, suddenly clear and strong. The man steps back, shocked, and draws himself up to his full height.

"How old are you, lad?" he asks severely. Malfoy finds himself forced to grin. Malfoy is nineteen years old and has killed three men, one woman and an assortment of dogs, cats and birds. This old fool, who has probably never even had one too many drinks, is treating him like a misbehaving child.

"It doesn't matter how old I am," said Malfoy, because it was true. Malfoy can see the man fighting the urge just to leave him where he is on the street.

"Well, perhaps there's somewhere you'd like to go?" he asks. Malfoy glares at him. The irony is he really _doesn't_ have anywhere he can go. Absolutely no where.

"If you say one more thing," he says calmly, "I will kill you." The man steps back again. This time fear replaces the concern in his eyes. Malfoy no longer looks like some harmless kid who's had a few more than is good for him. There's a glint in his grey eyes that fills the man with unease. Although he's quite sure, rationally, that this flimsy bag of bones has no more chance against him than a field mouse, he has a strong inclination to get in his car and drive away as fast as possible.

Malfoy continues to glare at the man. He is a comfortable, fleshy old bastard with nothing more to worry about than whether he's going to remember to get any milk on the way home. The injustice of it all is appalling.

"Now, son, if you'd jus-"

"Did you hear what I said?" Malfoy says, and wonders if he is really capable of it, at this time, after all that has happened. He advances on the man, who steps back despite himself. Even in his drunken state, Malfoy knows it would be more trouble than it is worth to use magic in front of this muggle, but he has become nothing if not slightly paranoid. He slips one of the several sharpened knives he carries on his person from beneath his muggle coat and raises it in front of him. At that exact moment the moon sails out from behind thick cloud. The blade glints, and the muggle understands. Without a word he scrambles into his car and is off. Malfoy leaps to the side just in time, and is showered with ice as the car's wheels struggle to accelerate.

(iiiii)

Hermione Granger steps out of the bathroom, warm and dry and a little disappointed that she has not interrupted anyone's sleep. She crosses the landing and enters her room. Sighing, she sits on her bed and contemplates life. She remembers being a little girl. A normal little muggle girl without any knowledge of witches and wizards and magic and broomsticks. When she was five, she played mummies and daddies with her next-door neighbors. She went to primary school and was bullied by Brendan Keller. She remembers Brendan Keller's face after he had called her beaver, and he was made to sit for an entire lunchtime on the 'brown chair'. She learnt the flute in year three, and was terrible at it. She was a sheep in the Christmas nativity play in year five. And then…well, then she was at Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Then she met Harry Potter, and her life changed forever. Her early existence is now a world away. It is amazing, really. Now, she dreamily wonders what her life would be if she had never become a witch…never been possessed of magic. Would she even now be at university? Studying to be a doctor, a lawyer, a _dentist?_ Would she be dead? She knows it is pointless to speculate. This is where she is now, and that is all that matters. She is working for the Order of the Phoenix in the war against the Dark Lord Voldemort. She is happy with that. It is a worthwhile cause.

(iiiii)

Malfoy draws himself up to his full height. He has to do it before the morning's hangover sets in. He judges it to be about 2:00am. He is alone in a dingy alleyway. Muggle waste is scattered on the cobbled stones and he has seen more than one rat. Shuddering, he draws out his wand. He stares at the polished wood, wondering if his muddled mind will be able to focus enough for him to apparate. Perhaps he will splinch himself…

(iiiii)

Hermione cannot sleep. Her shower seems to have woken her up a little too much. Now she is over-tired. She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling. She can just make out the dusty rafters above her. Who would have thought that she could have gone from living in her parent's orange-and-green cement rendered modernized bungalow to this rotting mansion full of real-live ghosts and sad memories. She smiles to herself. Real-live ghosts indeed…

(iiiii)

Malfoy materializes in front of what should be Number 12 Grimmauld Place without a sound. He has perfected the art of silent apparation to a tee. It has saved his life on several occasions. He stands in the darkness for a second. By some strange fortune, most of the streetlights are out tonight. He doesn't have to bother extinguishing them. He visualizes the key words in his head: _The Headquarters of the Order of the __Phoenix__ may be found at number __12 Grimmauld Place__London_As expected, the grimy old mansion appears before him, squeezing itself in between numbers 11 and 13. Malfoy grimaces. He can barely believe what he is about to do. He sways slightly, grateful for his intoxicated state. At least now he is less likely to follow his own nature. More likely to go through with it. He trudges up the front steps, wondering vaguely if he is in fact on a suicide mission. Taking a deep breath he gives the rope attached to the door bell a decisive wrench. There is a resounding clang. There is no going back now.

(iiiii)

Hermione is disturbed from her sleeplessness by the distant echoing reverberations of the door bell. Her first reaction is not puzzlement at who could be calling so late – order members return from their doings at all hours of the day or night. She does tense however, at the prospect of the noise awakening the portrait of the late mother of the late Sirius Black, Harry Potter's God father. By all accounts a nasty piece of work in life, her continued existence in portraiture has only served to increase Madam Black's degree of general bitterness and loathing for any kind of disturbance. Hermione holds her breath for a full minute before realizing that a miracle has occurred, and the portrait has not commenced its habitual ranting and raving. Hermione smiles. She is then galvanized into action, hoping whoever is out there is smart enough not to ring twice. Grabbing a dressing gown, she races out of the room.

(iiiii)

It takes a while for Malfoy to work out who has opened the door. The corridor within is dark, and his brain is not functioning at its usual rate. He concentrates a little harder and the person's features slowly swim into focus.

"Ah, shit," he says, and crumples to the ground.

(iiiii)

Attacking first and asking questions later has always been more of a Harry Potter-and-Ron Weasley thing rather than a Hermione Granger thing. She guesses that they've rubbed off on her quite a bit. She also asks herself who wouldn't send an instant stupefying spell at Draco Malfoy's head if he turned up on their doorstep at two o'clock in the morning. As she has been trained to do, she quickly has Malfoy in a full body bind and is levitating him into the house. Her hands are shaking has she directs Malfoy's body through the murky halls of Grimmauld Place. _They know_ is all she can think, _they know where we are…Voldemort knows where we are…_but there is still the question, _why did he ring on the door bell? Are there more out their? Did they sneak in after me?_ Feeling herself on the verge of panic, she begins to run, regardless of the battering Malfoy's rigid form is taking from protruding objects. She is on the first landing. She is in front of Dumbledore's bedroom door. She is thumping on the door like it's Harry's or Ron's. Regaining control, she knocks more politely. But her earlier noise seems to have done the trick. The door swings open and there stands Albus Dumbledore, wide awake and clad in a magnificent starry dressing gown. His clear blue eyes widen as he takes in his late night visitors.

"_Hermione?"_

"_Professor!__ It's Malfoy!" _she leans on the door frame for support, _"Malfoy_! Sir, they've found us! I don't-"

"Hermione, take a deep breath. What has happened?"

"He just turned up! He rang on the doorbell, sir! Draco Malfoy rang on the doorbell!" Dumbledore stares at her for a few more moments, and then shifts his gaze to Malfoy's pale, frozen face. Hermione takes a look at him too. He is looking decidedly worse for wear. His cheeks are thin and drawn, and a thick, messy red scar runs from beneath his pointed chin to just below his ear. His white-blond hair is lank and straggly. Not at all the arrogant, slime-ball image Hermione remembers from her last sighting of him. Dumbledore has stepped forward, draping his long, snowy white beard over his shoulder. His touches a long, bony index finger to Malfoy's scar.

"Someone has tried to cut his throat," he mutters to himself.

"Sir?" Hermione is feeling a lot calmer now. The mere presence of Dumbledore is enough for her.

"Ah…do go and wake Remus Lupin, and, er Alastor too, I think, and Professor McGonagall-"

"Alright, I'll just-"

"And, Hermione, _don't _awaken Harry or Ron, will you?"

"Er, no, of course not."

(iiiii)

Malfoy comes to with a severe pain in his temple. He opens his eyes blearily and takes stock of the situation. He is sitting up right in a decidedly hard wooden chair. His hands are tied none too gently behind the chair's back and his ankles have been fastened to the chair legs. A bright light has been conjured to shine directly into his face. He sighs as he squints around at the other occupants of the room. He should have known he was not going to get through this without being strung up with a skull-shattering blow to the head. He glances fleetingly at the silent assembly around him. They are all alert and with varying degrees of puzzlement, fear and disdain on their faces. He obviously hasn't been out long.

"Mr Malfoy," says the deep, infuriatingly polite voice of Albus Dumbledore. Malfoy forces himself to look up, cringing under Dumbledore's stern gaze.

"I've come to give you a warning," he says quickly, because he has spotted the infamous revolving eye of Alastor Moody, otherwise known as Mad-Eye Moody, fixed menacingly upon his face.

"A warning from your master, is it?" spits Moody, and Malfoy is surprised at the vehemence in his tone, "We don't stand to listen to threats from psychopaths, and we don't send his scumbags back!" Moody is advancing on Malfoy now, and he presses himself further back in his seat. The object of his insane little venture was not to get himself killed, but the likelihood of his staying alive was looking slimmer by the second.

"Wait a moment, Alastor," says Dumbledore calmly, "What do you mean by a 'warning'?" his piercing eyes are fixed on Malfoy's own, making him squirm. He has to say the right thing. Otherwise his life won't be worth living.

"I'm betraying my father," he says haltingly, having to force the words out. He cannot meet Dumbledore's eyes, "I'm betraying the Dark Lord. I'm trying to save the Order of the Phoenix. I'm a fucking filthy turncoat." If someone had told Draco Malfoy that he would be uttering these words a year ago, he would never have believed it, and that someone would probably find himself regretting he had ever been born. It is amazing what a single year can do to a person. Malfoy looks fearfully at the faces around him. Minerva McGonagall, his old transfiguration teacher, normally hard and inscrutable, has her mouth open in disbelief. Remus Lupin, the shabby werewolf, is regarding him suspiciously. Hermione Granger, one of his least favourite ex school mates, who he had always been adamant is a whiny little mudblood bitch, has confused look on her face. If he gets out of this alive, Malfoy promises himself he will get his revenge for her unnecessarily violent greeting.

Mad-Eye Moody is the only one showing open and complete loathing and disbelief. It is to be expected. After all, Moody is known to be so utterly paranoid that he is fundamentally unable to drink anything he has not prepared himself, and carts a hip flask around wherever he goes. Thinking of drinks, Malfoy is reminded that he is no longer drunk. Some bastard seems to have performed a sobering charm on him. He grits his teeth. What do these people care that he is basically defying his very nature just to save them. Well, not to save _them_ exactly, but definitely for the betterment of wizard kind. Or the betterment of Draco Malfoy. Either way.

"The Dark Lord has found out where your base is-"

"_Obviously," _interjects Moody. Malfoy shudders.

"And he's coming. At midnight tonight. In less than twenty four hours time. He's found a way to…well, I don't understand it exactly…but, he's already planted _things-_"

"_Things?"_

"-in this house…he'll kill all of you at once, he knows there's some kind meeting going on – you'll all be here-"

"Mr Malfoy," interrupts Dumbledore, his voice slightly strained, "Are you telling me that we have a traitor in our midst?" Malfoy gulps. Dumbledore has gotten straight to the point.

"Yes." There is an surprisingly loud uproar of voices for a small group of five.

"We can't trust him!" roars Moody over the babble. He's the bleeding son of Lucius Malfoy. What possible reason could we have to believe a word that comes out of his craven mouth?" There is a brief silence at these words. Dumbledore sighs. He strides over to Malfoy. Malfoy looks up. He has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Dumbledore smiles grimly,

"A precautionary measure. I do hope you understand, Mr Malfoy." Dumbledore taps him gently on the head with his wand. He blacks out.

(iiiii)

Hermione gazes at Malfoy's limp form, slumped over his chair. His head is thrown backwards, baring his ugly scar to the onlookers. All at once he looks small and vulnerable. Hermione remembers all the times he called her a stupid mudblood. All through school, he had been utterly convinced that he had something over her when he said things like that. The sad thing was, Hermione had been unaffected for the most part. She was a muggleborn. Initially she'd had no idea what a mudblood was, or the stigma attached to it. Besides, it was hard to feel the sting when you had friends like Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. Hard to feel the sting from a selfish, vindictive little boy who was probably going to end up dead, imprisoned or a pathetic lackey to an evil tyrant by time he'd finished school. With those prospects, one could almost have felt sorry for him. Almost. Hermione sighs.

"I am afraid I do not detect a lie in his words," says Dumbledore. Moody glares at him fiercely, his wild eyes rotating faster and faster.

"His father's one of the best liars I've ever met, and there could be some trickery. He might be under the imperius charm, completely oblivious to what he's saying-"

"Alastor, if you merely calmed down slightly, you would see that in no way am I suggesting that we simply let him free and take his word for it. I am just saying that we cannot be too careful. There are more ways to get the truth out of him than simply asking. I believe that Severus Snape has some veritaserum stored in his room at this very moment. Truth potion will usually counter most charms." Moody nodded at Dumbledore respectfully and shot another death glare at Malfoy.

"You're right Dumbledore. I can't help but feel that there's something fishy about anything to do with a Malfoy, however." He strode to the door. "But there's no time to lose. I'll be back with that veritaserum in a minute." Dumbledore holds up his hand, his eyes glittering,

"Alastor, do remember you are entering Severus' rooms. I could not venture a guess at the kind of defensive spells he would cast on his door when he is away,"

"I do hope, Dumbledore, that you are not seriously asking _me_ to be careful?"

"Oh, no, I would not presume to. Off you go then. Excellent."

The remaining company watch Moody lurch out of the room, his wooden leg clunking loudly on the floor boards. They then turn back to Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore," says McGonagall in a rather high voice, "Don't you think we ought to have questioned him a little more before we knocked him out? I don't understand how you're so calm. This is…well, it's going to change everything. They've found out where we are and who knows how many other secrets!"

"Ah, well, Minerva, I think Alastor was getting a little excited. If this _is_ a trap – and if it is it's a very strange one – I do not want young Malfoy finding out anymore than he already has," Dumbledore looks very sad for a moment, "My true worry is for Severus, of course." There is an intake of breath around the room as the company realize the implications of a traitor in their midst. Severus Snape has been a double agent for a long time now, and if he has been found out by Voldemort he is as good as dead, or worse. Hermione Granger has never felt there to be any love lost between her and the embittered potions master, but she knows that Severus Snape of all people does not deserve such an inevitably gruesome fate. Glancing back at Malfoy, she wonders again whether he is telling the truth. The last anyone heard of Draco Malfoy, which was admittedly almost two years ago now, he had just been granted the rights to his father's vast property, which had been confiscated by the ministry the previous year, on the condition that he kept his nose clean. He had smilingly sworn allegiance to the Ministry of Magic, locked up his house so it was an impenetrable fortress, and promptly disappeared off the face of the earth. He was then classified officially as a missing person, and a suspected deatheater. In other words, people like Mad-Eye Moody were after his blood.

Hermione thinks of something. She walks cautiously over to Malfoy and picks up his skinny wrist, gently pulling up his sleeve. She closes her eyes for a second. Branded into Malfoy's pale flesh is the horrific black tattoo that Voldemort bestows upon all his minions, a painful reminder of where their loyalties lie, and a way to call them up at a moment's notice. Hermione gazes it with a kind of fascinated disgust, and quickly drops his arm, backing away. Dumbledore gives her a level stare,

"It was to be expected, after all," he says quietly. She nods,

"You know, sir, this doesn't really make much sense. Why would Voldemort send someone in to tell us about an attack he isn't going to perform? If there _is _a traitor, why not just attack us unawares? Why _tell_ us about it?" Dumbledore looks thoughtful,

"I must admit, I'm not sure. Perhaps Voldemort plans to tell us one time and attack sooner? I do not know. No, that would be an idiotic course. That is not his style. His plans have been foiled too many times for him to play games." Dumbledore strokes his beard thoughtfully, "I am afraid I am inclined to believe Malfoy so far. There may be quite a reasonable explanation for his change of heart. But we must get the truth quickly, for obvious reasons. Thus, the truth potion."

"But, sir, what if one of _us_ is the traitor, if there is one? The traitor could act now, easily-"

"I am confident that none of us is the traitor. I am sure that if they were, they would have acted already," replies Dumbledore evenly, but Hermione detects a note of worry in his voice. It is not encouraging.

(iiiii)

Malfoy regains consciousness for the second time in half an hour. It is not a pleasant awakening. Mad-Eye Moody's mutilated nose is trust forcefully into his face. His mouth is twisted into a leering grin. Malfoy swallows and takes a breath,

"I-"

"Shut it, Malfoy. Not another word. We're going to do this as quickly as possible." Still grinning hideously, Moody raises a small vial of something clear and sinister into Malfoy's line of vision. Malfoy is seized with a sudden fear. He's seen that liquid before…

"Surely there's no need-"

"Oh, I assure you, there's need." Without another word, Moody grabs Malfoy's chin and brings the potion to his lips. Before he knows it, he has swallowed. It tastes of nothing…it makes his stomach feel like…nothing. In fact, nothing really matters any more. Quite literally…


	2. Blood Traitor

Disclaimer: The characters and plot from JK Rowling's Harry Potter series are not owned by Fowl Ole Ron

**_THE LAST THREAD_**

_By Foul Ole Ron_

**Chapter Two**

**Blood Traitor**

Harry Potter sits in the kitchen of No. 12 Grimmauld Place, sipping tea and wishing fervently that he was still asleep. Opposite him, Professor Severus Snape sits rigidly in his chair, staring blankly out the kitchen window. He hasn't said a word to Harry since his sudden arrival ten minutes ago, and he hasn't moved a muscle. It doesn't even look as though he is going to bother to make an unscheduled report to Dumbledore. Harry notices that he has a shallow scratch across his hooked nose, but apart from that looks as sullen as usual, if a little dazed. For the past ten minutes, Harry has been struggling with the obvious question, but due to the utter loathing Snape harbors for him, he needs to word it carefully.

"Professor?" he asks cautiously. Even though Snape is no longer his professor, addressing him as 'Severus' or even 'Snape' is not advisable. Snape's sallow face snaps around and his obsidian eyes stare directly into Harry's own,

"Sent down here to wait for me, were you?" he asks, his even tone laced with its usual underlying menace, "Hardly an appropriate candidate to comfort me in my possible torment, but maybe no one was really expecting me to return?" Typically, Snape's face is completely closed. Harry sighs. Although he has long ago come to terms with the fact that life is just one long catastrophe after another, his natural optimism rears its ugly head whenever the latest disaster has abated. It's the only way he can survive. Other people have different ways. Snape, for example, cherishes absolutely no hope for himself or anyone else. He is so excruciatingly self-absorbed and broiling with unresolved feelings of guilt and injustice that he looks no further than fulfilling his duty and living to see another day of his miserable life. This, Harry reflects, is part of what makes him the perfect spy. His belief that the world has somehow deliberately wronged him coupled with his eternal guilt make him wretchedly determined to save his own skin while at the same time steadfastly loyal due to a desperate wish to make up for past crimes. This is of course a theory proposed by Harry's friend Hermione Granger. Harry suspects that this kind of thing is actually what Ronald Weasley calls crazy psychobabble thought up by nutters with too much time on their hands, and so is inclined to ignore it most of the time. Looking at Snape now, Harry notes that it is not entirely inaccurate. Possibly very true, in fact. Although he almost never feels sorry for Snape, there is a faint twinge of pity now. The perfect spy may have been undermined through no fault of his own, and Harry knows that the perfect spy is all Snape has. Harry wishes he could have been assigned some other duty, but Dumbledore won't let him anywhere near Draco Malfoy. Too many feelings involved. Harry would be unbelievably angry that Dumbledore does not credit him with enough maturity to deal with old school boy feuds by now, but he has decided that he is also mature enough to accept his marching orders in times of crisis.

"Well, we were worried," he says, trying to sound neutral, "We aren't completely sure what's happening yet-"

"Oh, you were worried were you? Lovely. I am glad. I have some news that will worry you even more, Potter, and there isn't a single thing you can do about it-"

"Sir, you need to-"

"I don't need to do anything, Potter," says Snape tonelessly, "I have failed the order. All is lost, as they say-"

"Professor Snape," cuts in Harry. Now what is he supposed to say? He has no way of telling what has happened to Snape or how much he knows, "We know about the traitor-"

"Traitor?" Snape's sits up even straighter, his voice is sharp.

"Draco Malfoy arrived earlier this morning. He told us about Voldemort's plan to attack the order at midnight tonight-"

"_Draco__ Malfoy?"_ Harry nods, a little irritably,

"_Yes_. Although I don't why _you _didn't hear of it beforehand." He can't resist a little jibe. But Snape cringes so uncharacteristically that he feels slightly guilty.

"I knew _nothing _of it," Snape snarls, rising to his feet, "_Nothing_. The Dark Lord has been feeding me false information for a week. It is fortunate I have not had time to report it. I barely escaped with my life tonight. And now you tell me there is a _traitor?_ What of the fidelius charm? What of all our secrecy?" Snape's eyes are burning with anger, and what Harry now recognizes as self-loathing.

"We don't know," he replies levelly, "Yet." Snape is now trembling as he processes what Harry has told him.

"_Who?"_ he spits, and his nose is suddenly inches from Harry's own. Harry is not impressed, but he long past being provoked by Severus Snape. Harry meets his gaze calmly, although calm is the opposite of what he feels,

"Ginny Weasley," he replies.

(iii)

Hermione Granger stares glumly into the obscenely cheerful fire. She has been given the duty of watching over Malfoy's unconscious body. She is not quite sure how that happened. Something to do with being the kindest, most generous member of the order, she suspects. Malfoy has again been dispatched from consciousness by the increasingly paranoid Moody . Three times in the space of two hours – and perhaps more before that due to his drunken state upon arrival – it is possible that he is irrevocably damaged. Hermione sighs as she sees the first stirrings of wakefulness. _No such luck._ She quickly makes sure his bonds are secure before standing back to watch. Malfoy lets out a groan,

"Oh, God," he says, not bothering to open his eyes, obviously in pain.

"You a Christian, are you, Malfoy?" asks Hermione, interested despite herself. She had thought that if you swore yourself to Voldemort, well, then, you've sworn yourself to Voldemort.

"Oh, is it _you,_ Granger?" he asks, a bratty whine in his voice.

"Believe me, I wish it wasn't." She replies, giving him a disdainful glare, which is lost on him as he has not yet opened his eyes.

"Oh, go away. Do you know how much my head hurts?" Hermione decides not to continue the conversation. It really isn't worth it. Anyone who witnessed the tortuous extraction of truth in the early hours of the morning can sympathize with Hermione. Malfoy, despite his drugged state and complete loss of free will, had managed to portray his general obnoxiousness so vividly that none of the interrogators had left the room feeling quite well in the stomach. Under the influence of veritaserum, Malfoy's tongue had been loosened a little too much, and he had held back nothing of the goings on in deatheater circles. Hermione was rather glad Professor Snape never thought to share any of his experiences.

Now, Hermione still feels disgusted, but is more worried about the shocking information Malfoy has revealed. Very worried, in fact. So worried, that she cannot believe that Dumbledore is still debating the best course of action. Voldemort has found a way to bypass the fidelius charm. Voldemort has infiltrated the Order of the Phoenix. Voldemort has planted what Hermione understands from Malfoy's descriptions to be pellets of deadly Oleander Gas throughout No. 12 Grimmauld Place, to be activated at the time and date of a meeting of the entire order. Certain death for over a hundred people who are key players in the war against Voldemort. It is mind boggling. Hermione realizes in that instant that she must actually be in a state of shock. She is exchanging insults with Malfoy when she should be stressing over the fact that Dumbledore has been outwitted and almost completely undone by Voldemort. When she should be grieving over the identity of the traitor. Shocking as it is that Draco Malfoy is sitting across from her groaning softly, it is still a miracle. If he had not come. If his twisted personality had not hit a major snag in Voldemort's ideology and had some sort of epiphany, she, and all her friends, would be dead in less than a day. She owes her life to murderer with a conveniently timed guilt complex. It is almost laughable.

(iii)

Malfoy stares at Granger through half-closed eyes. To say he is feeling horrendous is an understatement. He had known he would pay for his sudden change of heart, but he also knows that anything he will suffer at the hands of Albus Dumbledore will be a walk in the park compared to the things Lord Voldemort would do to him should they ever meet again. Malfoy is prepared to do anything to prevent _that_ eventuality. Even if it means laying low with the likes of Hermione Granger or, dare he even think it, Harry Potter for a while. He realizes that he should not have dared think it. It is not a tolerable thought. He wonders how long they will keep him tied up.

After some time, Malfoy notices that Granger's head is lolling in her infinitely comfortable looking chair. Malfoy's own bony behind has gone numb and come out the other side, and is throbbing painfully. He sits perfectly still, watching her closely until he judges her to be asleep. He smiles grimly as he tests the ropes around his wrists. He holds in a snort. His bonds are hardly tight. The Order of the Phoenix are a pack of bleeding hearts. Except Moody. Malfoy wouldn't like to be alone in a room with Moody. But Dumbledore didn't let him alone with Moody. Thus, after relieving him of his wand, no one bothered to check for any concealed weaponry. No wonder they are set to lose this war. The Dark Lord has something they have all been short changed in. Ruthless cunning.

Twisting his hands, Malfoy carefully slips the small, razor-sharp knife out from inside his shirt cuff. Maneuvering it expertly into position, he saws patiently at the ropes until they fall silently into his hands. Malfoy takes a moment to smile smugly. Not exactly ruthless cunning, but at least he might get a decent morning's sleep now. He quickly frees his numbed legs and stands. A mistake, as it turns out. Within minutes jets of excruciating pins-and-needles shoot up his legs. He manages to sink onto the carpet with out making a sound, and lies there for several minutes, mouthing obscenities and clutching his ankles with equally tender wrists. Perhaps the bleeding hearts of the Order have to be reassessed. After a while, the pain subsides, and Malfoy crawls closer to the fire, which has been crackling merrily throughout his time of torment. He contemplates the most dignified way to lie, and finally decides that his back or his side will make him appear too vulnerable. He rolls onto his stomach, and rests his head on his hands, which are still tingling. If he wasn't so unutterably tired, he would stretch them out in front of him so as to assuage further affects of numbing when he wakes up.

(iii)

Harry Potter hasn't moved since Snapes dramatic exit. He is still sitting in the kitchen, drinking his third cup of tea, when Ron Weasley stumbles in, looking completely wrecked. His hair is sticking up almost as much as Harry's, his eyes are bloodshot and his hands are shaking. Harry stares at him. Ron hasn't spoken to him since Hermione barged into the room they shared some three hours ago, slightly hysterical, to tell them the terrible news. Harry really doesn't know what to say. 'I told you so,' somehow doesn't seem very appropriate. Ron hadn't appreciated Harry and Hermione airing their suspicions about his sister Ginny's mental health over the years, and he wouldn't appreciate a reminder of his own stubborn refusal to see anything strange now. Of course, neither Harry nor Hermione had ever dreamed that Ginevra Weasley had joined _Voldemort_, but there had definitely been something up. She hadn't been the same person for years. But that was neither here nor there. Draco Malfoy, under the influence of Veritaserum has accused her with conviction of being a traitor. Harry knows what Ron's line will be. Innocent until proven guilty from her own lips. And Ginny Weasley's lips are who knows where, possibly spilling valuable information to Lord Voldemort at this very moment.

Harry glances at Ron warily. It is going to be a trying morning. He wishes Hermione were here to say the right thing.

"Ron," he says, standing awkwardly. Ron glares at him,

"It's not true, Harry," he says fiercely, "Malfoy's a lying git!" Harry winces,

"Ron-"

"And _you're _a git too! I know what _you_ think! You and Hermione! You've hated her for years! Like you know her better than her own family!" Harry runs a hand through his hair wearily. He knows better than to argue with Ron, because there is so much at stake, but he can't help defending himself a little,

"Ron, I've never _hated _Ginny-"

"Oh yeah? You haven't said a pleasant thing to her in ages! No wonder she ran off!"

"Ron," says Harry, a little heatedly, "I don't think Ginny would run off because of _me_. You have to accept that she wasn't…the way she was…because I wouldn't be with her or something – whatever you seem to think should have happened-"

"She always liked you, Harry, you know it, you rejected her-"

"She had a crush on me as an _eleven year old_, Ron, she's been over me since, oh, I don't know when-"

"You rejected her, and she got depressed, you hated her for no reason other than you thought she was a slut!" Ron was on a rant, oblivious. Harry is shocked that he would even think this. He's obviously been hiding his resentment.

"Give it a rest, Ron!" he says angrily, "I did not think your sister was a slut! I do not hate her! I just don't trust her!" Ron looks up at Harry tone of voice, and to Harry's shock there are tears in his eyes. Harry, in a fit of wisdom, realizes that now is not the time to convince Ron of Ginny's guilt. There is, after all, a slight possibly that if Voldemort counteracted the Fidelius Charm, then Malfoy counteracted veritaserum. Not to mention the fact that in Ron's position, Harry can see himself acting in exactly the same way. Feeling more than a little embarrassed, Harry gives him an awkward hug and steps back,

"I'm sorry, Ron. And, well, because I didn't hate Ginny-"

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Harry-",

"-and because I didn't think she was a slut-"

"She _wasn't, _she isn't"

"-and because Malfoy _is_ a lying git, I'll give Ginny the benefit of the doubt as long as I can. But don't expect everyone else to. I know old Mad-Eye has been going on about the possibility of traitors for months." Ron gives a half hearted snort,

"He'll be torn. Won't know who to mistrust more. Malfoy or Ginny."

(iii)

There is a high pitched scream. Malfoy mumbles incoherently, his brain foggy. _Sleep_, he thinks, _sleep…_and suddenly the point of a wand is digging into the back of his neck. He has rolled onto his side in the night, and cannot see his attacker. Before remembering that he is fact a prisoner, and that the wand most probably belongs to Hermione Granger, Malfoy contemplates leaping up and disarming his opponent with a swift kick and a well aimed punch. He then recollects that when in comes to unarmed combat his skills leave much to be desired.

"S'alright, Granger," he says instead, "Jus' sleeping…leave me alone…"

"Malfoy, stand up," comes Granger's shrill, panic-laden voice.

"Oh, fuck off, won't you?" He mumbles, "Not going anywhere. No where to go."

"I said _stand up_!" these words are accompanied by a sharp jab.

"_Alright_," he scrambles unsteadily to his knees, his brain not fully awake. Heaving himself to his feet, he turns to face Granger, an ugly scowl on his face. He is a full head taller than her, he is glad to note. He has never been particularly tall, but it would be horrible to be on equal footing with _Granger_. Her wand is pointed at his chest. He rolls his eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeats irritably, "But I wasn't going to stand for being tied up in that chair all night. All the thanks I get for saving your miserable lives. And anyway, it's your fault. _You _went to sleep." Granger grits her teeth.

"It's eight o'clock. We're going to see Dumbledore." Malfoy scowls even more fiercely,

"What for? Everything's already been forced out of me. I've nothing to tell."

"I know. I really wish I didn't. You really are atrocious, Malfoy."

"What? Oh, I let on a little two much for you to stomach, didn't I? I see." Malfoy smirks. He has offended all their Gryffindor sensibilities. An unexpected bonus.

"Don't look so smug Malfoy. You didn't do yourself any favors. Dumbledore doesn't have any soft spots for people who torture muggles for fun." Malfoy raises his blond eyebrows,

"I've never tortured anyone," he says, "I haven't the strength," he raises a skinny arm, grinning. He watches her face, still smiling. He is gratified to see that she can't work out if he is being serious. It is not like him to highlight his own deficiencies, "And it's below me, of course. Being a Malfoy." Malfoy feels a little shocked at himself. He never says anything even slightly self-depreciating. It just goes to show what can happen to a person when everything they've ever believed is taken away.

"Leave that to your cronies, do you?" Says Granger obliviously,

"Well, I don't know." Malfoy's moment of humor suddenly drains away. His father's face floats before his eyes, cold and sneering. So like his own. "I never did have much control," he says in a low voice, more to himself than to Granger.

(iii)

It is midday.

"We have twelve hours," says Dumbledore gravely, "And two choices." The entire room is staring at him, in a horrified daze. Every member of the order currently in residence at Grimmauld Place are at hand. The greater part of the order that were to be present at the doomed meeting have been informed and ordered to lay low. Hermione glances around. She avoids looking too closely at the assorted Weasleys in attendance. The looks on their faces range from complete horror, to anger, to utter disbelief. Harry sits beside Ron, glancing nervously every so often at his red-headed friend, as if afraid he might explode. Ron is glaring venomously at Malfoy, who has been chained securely to his chair and is clinking his manacles irritably whilst disdainfully avoiding eye-contact with anyone. As well he might. No one has quite processed the idea of Draco Malfoy actually helping the order. Images of Lucius Malfoy at his worst are a little too fresh in their minds.

Beside Malfoy sits Snape, whose wrathful expression speaks more than any snarky words could. Across from him is Remus Lupin, his usual worried-and-thoughtful self, Mad-Eye Moody, tapping his peg leg impatiently, and Nymphadora Tonks, her hair a surprisingly somber shade of olive green. Professor McGonagall is looking older, Hermione notes, and her typical rigid posture is slightly slumped.

"It'll be Christmas in a couple of days," says Ron's brother Fred gloomily. Everyone, including Dumbledore, blink at this pronouncement, and Mrs Weasley begins to sob.

"Yes," says Dumbledore, recovering first, "It will indeed. A good thing, in these desperate times. As I was saying, we have two choices. And I am afraid the second is not really a choice once we think about it. I deeply sorry to say that we must take the word of Draco Malfoy to be true at this point. We have no other option. There is no logical explanation for Malfoy to be able to lie to veritaserum. Whatever the case, we must do something. We must either evacuate this house and abandon it permanently, or we must try to rid it of the Oleander gas Malfoy asserts has been planted here by Ginny Weasley." He looks sorrowfully over at Mrs Weasley, who is being comforted her husband, and at Ron, who is quivering with anger.

"I would like to remind you all that there are…possibilities…that we may reserve judgment on Ginny before we know the true facts. However, for now we must assume the worst." He smiles sadly, and Hermione notices a tear in his eye.

"I must say for myself that I do not think there is enough time to be completely sure the house is safe. Whatever happens, this place can no longer be our headquarters."

Hermione looks at Harry, wondering how he is feeling. This was Sirius Black's house, and Harry's godfather left it to him. Now it is going to be ravaged by deatheaters. Hermione smiles at him weakly, and then turns to ask Dumbledore the question everyone has been wondering about.

"Sir, about the Fidelius Charm…" she trails off. The Fidelius Charm is supposed to be unbreakable. No one is supposed to be able to blurt any secret included in the Charm unless they are the secret keeper. And the secret keeper for the order is Dumbledore. For the first time, Hermione sees a flash of fear in Dumbledore's eye. But it is gone as quickly as it arrived, and no one else seems to notice anything. He sighs.

"I must confess…I do not know. I have thought on it all morning. I am afraid it will probably take some time to puzzle out. Unfortunately, the Fidelius Charm is so old that there is a possibility that there was once a way undo it, that has been lost. I have said it before: Lord Voldemort has powers I will never have, and I am sure he knows things I do not." Dumbledore smiles sadly, and Hermione is reminded that he is not infallible. She hopes he won't go on, because she knows that it will not do the order any good to have their confidence in Dumbledore undermined. There is a prolonged silence in which everyone avoids everyone's eyes.

"Well," says Moody, after a while, "It seems we will have to leave, set up somewhere else. This place is useless now they know about it. All this about the Fidelius Charm – I think it means only one thing. The time of secrecy if over. I don't know about you, but I reckon we're facing open war." There is not a sound in the room except for an occasional hiccupping sob from Mrs Weasley. Hermione feels her insides turn to ice. _Open war_. She looks at Harry. He has turned white, and his green eyes are bulging. She knows he is remembering the prophecy he discovered four years ago, in the Department of Mysteries deep within the vaults of the Ministry of Magic…_and either must die at the hand of the other…_Harry has to kill Voldemort, or be killed by him. There is no sort of logical advise Hermione can give to an ultimatum like that. Harry is shaking, because he knows that 'open war' means that the prophecy is that much closer to being fulfilled. None of the three friends ever talk about it openly. They're the only ones who know, apart form Dumbledore. Moody is continuing to talk,

"And as for Malfoy, he can't be trusted. Once a turncoat, always a turncoat. We can't let him go and we can't let him be privy to our plans, so-"

"Alastor, the Order of the Phoenix does not…_dispose_ of its prisoners," cuts in Professor McGonagall, looking stern,

"I wasn't suggesting _that_," says Moody, who does not even look mildly affronted at the implication that he is suggesting murder, "But we should keep him chained up somewhere out of the way, until all this is over," Moody leers horribly at Malfoy, who has gone even paler than usual, "And if we remember him, we can give him a trial, if not, well-"

"Alastor, you-"

"At least until we can reach a rational decision about his loyalty," cuts in Dumbledore diplomatically. He looks at Malfoy imperiously,

"If you _do_ decide you want to be further help to the order, it may be to your advantage in the future," he says, "As you know, I believe in second chances. But only where they are deserved." Hermione can see Malfoy's adam's apple bobbing up and down in fear as he tries to nod offhandedly. She turns her head at the sound of a scuffle. Ron is struggling against the restraining arms of Fred and his twin, George,

"Second chance!" he shouts, "I'll give him a second chance-"

"_Ron!"_ says Mrs Weasley in a broken voice, "_Stop it!"_ Hermione feels tears well in her own eyes and sees Ron's angry, washed out face. She crosses and sits in the spare seat next to the one his brothers have forced him back into. She places a hand on his arm, feeling intensely sorry for him.

"Oh, Ron," she says. Next to them, Harry puts his head in his hands.

"Wake me when this is over," he says in a muffled voice. Hermione sighs.

(iii)

It is four o'clock in the afternoon now. Harry spends his last hour in No. 12 Grimmauld Place staring at the Black family tree, which Sirius Black, his godfather showed him once, long ago. He is reminded forcibly of how ridiculous Voldemort's pureblood regime really is. All those little names joined up. The Weasleys, the Malfoys, the Blacks, all interrelated. Except the Weasleys were chiseled out for being filthy blood traitors. Harry thinks of Ginny Weasley. Whichever way you look at it, innocent or guilty, she is just that. A blood traitor. It's ironic in a horribly sad kind of a way.


End file.
